Windmills
by intodust
Summary: I spend too much time raiding windmills . . . we go side by side, laugh until it's right.


Windmills  
by intodust  
  
Disclaimer: Dark Angel is the property of 20th Century Fox and Cameron/Eglee Productions; that is, it's not mine. A Travis McGee quote is mentioned; it belongs to John D. MacDonald, or rather, his estate. The summary (and title) are from a song by Toad the Wet Sprocket.  
  
Takes place in the first season.  
  
- - -  
  
1.  
  
Dawn finds them on the road, far away from the light and flames of the city. Trees blur past the windows, shades of brown and gray and white. This is winter. He is driving too fast, but she will not tell him to slow down.  
  
She will not.  
  
His hands are tight on the steering wheel, white against black. She can see his veins, pale blue lines underneath such a thin layer. The blood flows like water, smashing against the barrier.  
  
The pavement is wet, rich-dark. Glossy against the texture of nature and too human, a mark of technology, of ownership. Hard to imagine the smooth surface is nothing more than a scar. The heater is on and the warm air is clammy, but she will not ask him to turn it off.  
  
She will not.  
  
And so they drive, and they drive, and the horizon changes from pink to ruby-gold to black, like a bruise in reverse.  
  
2.  
  
They have not lost everything. If they had, they would not be moving, would not be running. But what they have left is fragile, could so easily fall into air, and so it remains untouched. There will be time for discussion when they stop.  
  
And if they do not make it that far, it will not matter. He hopes for her sake that they do, because he wants her to have a Real Life. He wants her on a beach, sand beneath her feet and wind in her hair and the air would smell of oranges and sea.  
  
But wants are not promises, not vows. And they will need concrete, the false strength of words to keep them here.  
  
So he says that they will make it, even as he thinks that he's tired, and so is she, and maybe she should leave him here and disappear from the apocalypse that has become their lives.  
  
It has been said that those who become legends in their own time rarely have much time left.  
  
He should have remembered that.  
  
3.  
  
Afternoon is silver and she wonders what it would feel like to live inside lightning. Pure energy, she thinks. And pure adrenaline. It is what has kept them going this far. What has kept them alive in the days before they left, before they understood that it was Too Late.  
  
She is running again, and she wonders where it will stop. The road will turn to water when they reach the end, and she hopes he knows where he is going. She hopes he has a plan, maybe a white-painted house with trees reaching to the stars and nights like oil.  
  
She wonders what it is like to watch the end of the world. To reach the end of the road.  
  
They are not far, she knows. They will go much further.  
  
She wishes she could sleep, but she will not abandon him, and so she keeps a nervous vigil and imagines candles and rain and the sound of alarms that signal nothing more than the beginning of another day.  
  
4.  
  
It is too early. They should have had more time. Maybe they would have, if he had noticed. If she had noticed. If they had paid more attention, been more alert. It no longer matters. It is over.  
  
It is over, and something new has begun. He wishes that it had taken him alone, but he is glad that she is with him. It's selfish, but he is tired of being righteous and fighting to survive at the same time. He will be glad when they stop driving, when they stop.  
  
When they begin again.  
  
She does not speak and he dares not ask her for her thoughts, because regrets are infinite and he does not need affirmation. She looks out the window and he can see a faint reflection of her image on the glass, so light against the landscape, against the wilderness.  
  
If this is not the end, why can't he see past midnight?  
  
5.  
  
Night is rich with color. She does not want to name them all and so she looks for stars, but the clouds have covered them, have separated the world from cool heavens. She wonders if it is a sign and remembers belatedly that she doesn't believe in those.  
  
The engine hums, mechanical life. No one has stopped them, no one has asked. Maybe no one is looking for them, but she will not risk that. They will not go back. Ruins are cold and empty.  
  
But people are warm, she thinks. The people she left behind, the friends she made all too recently, they're still there. They wait.  
  
They will always wait.  
  
His gaze is apology and she is glad for the darkness out her window; it will not contradict her stories. It will not protest her lies.  
  
- - -  
  
The End.  
  
Feedback, as always, is much welcomed (and appreciated). 


End file.
